


The Empty Flat & The Burning Bookshop

by probably_publius



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1960s, 2019, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Relationship, Aziraphale and Crowley in Love (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Based on a Tumblr Post, Best Friends, Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), During Canon, Fake Character Death, Flashbacks, Fluff, Heavy Angst, Holy Water (Good Omens), Hugs, M/M, Minor Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens), Quote: You go too fast for me Crowley (Good Omens), Reunions, Scene: The Bandstand (Good Omens), Scene: The Bookshop Fire (Good Omens), Scene: The Bus Ride (Good Omens), Themes of suicide, Victorian, What if Az saw the demon remains in Crowley's flat, What-If, themes of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28867365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/probably_publius/pseuds/probably_publius
Summary: It took a lot for Aziraphale to finally give in and give Crowley the thermos of Holy Water, and when he does, he is ladden with guilt. He can only hope that he doesn't use it on himself.In this storyline, Sergeant Shadwell takes just a minute longer to run to Mr. Fell's bookshop and misses Aziraphale after he runs to Crowley's flat. Meanwhile, Crowley is driving (if you can call it driving) to the bookshop. Aziraphale finds the demon goop and his thermos of Holy Water in Crowley's empty flat, his best friend gone. Crowley finds the bookshop in flames, his best friend gone.Warnings!!! You have been warned! Heavy angst, some swearing, reference to murder , reference to discorporation, reference to stealing, mention of Nazis, themes of and apparent suicide, themes of depression, self-loathing, and self-guilt.Please let me know if I missed anything in the warnings. Enjoy!
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 65





	The Empty Flat & The Burning Bookshop

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings!!! You have been warned! Heavy angst, some swearing, reference to murder , reference to discorporation, reference to stealing, mention of Nazis, themes of and apparent suicide, themes of depression, self-loathing, and self-guilt.
> 
> Please let me know if I missed anything in the warnings. Enjoy!

Aziraphale slammed shut the bookshop door and tore his hat off, throwing it towards a shelf of books. The hat crumpled and fell to the dirty floor, but Aziraphale could care less. “What a… what a  _ bastard _ !” he exclaimed. The angel normally refrained from cursing, but he needed to let some air out after his recent meeting with Crowley.

Aziraphale walked towards his desk, stomping angrily against the wooden floor with each step. He probably looked foolish, but it wasn’t like anyone would see. The bookshop was closed for the day and there was only one person at the window, but they were too busy trying to decipher the shop hours to pay any attention to the huffy owner inside.

“I mean, Holy Water,  _ really?!” _ Aziraphale asked no one in particular as he plopped down in front his desk and started nervously fiddling with some papers. “He can’t expect me to get him a suicide pill after all we’ve been through.”

“Not that we’re friends, of course,” Aziraphale corrected himself. Although, in the safety of his mind, he admitted that he had been eager to meet Crowley at St. James in hopes they could have some sort of nice afternoon. And, ever since he was rescued from the Bastille by Crowley, he might even admit they were more than acquaintances.

But not now. A friend would never ask Aziraphale to use his angelic powers so that they could… end their own existence. And now… Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder if Crowley had only been amiable with him just to get his hands on some Holy Water. Though, six thousand years seemed like an awful long time to be nice to someone only for a bit of Holy Water. But Crowley was a demon, and he'd had long-term temptations and mischievous projects before.

Aziraphale’s hands were begging for something to do, and he ran out of papers to organize on his desk so he moved onto dusting his shelves a bit angrier than was necessary.

“No,” he figured aloud, “No, Crowley is not a friend.” But still, whether he were a friend, acquaintance, hereditary enemy, or  _ whatever _ , Aziraphale didn’t want to be to blame for his end. Some angel he was... thinking like that. He was supposed to smite the demon for Heaven’s sake! 

“He is an _ enemy _ ,” Aziraphale told himself. Sometimes, he needed to be reminded of that.

Aziraphale couldn’t believe it when he had heard it. He had prematurely believed that Crowley had long ago moved on from obtaining Holy Water; it had, afterall, been nearly 105 years since the demon had first brought it up. But, oh, that wily snake was now planning to  _ steal  _ Holy Water from a church. And Aziraphale had to hear all of this from a group of obnoxious late-night partiers outside his shop when he was trying to have a relaxing evening of reading.

“He could have warned me,” he sighed angrily, struggling to open up a thermos. “I mean, I probably wouldn’t have given him Holy Water if he had asked again but… oh, I could try and help him this time around.”

Aziraphale filled the now-open thermos with water and went through the proper ritual. “I can’t allow him to put himself at risk, breaking into a church. And those mortals he recruited as well.”

Aziraphale held up the thermos, examining the tartan print he had decorated it with. He hoped Crowley would understand this was meant as a sign of… friendship. Yeah, friendship. Aziraphale could at least admit there was _something_ between them after Crowley had saved him and his prophetic books from Nazis. “But why would he want this?” he asked himself. He recalled Crowley saying it was for insurance in case Hell caught onto their Arrangement, but Aziraphale didn’t completely trust that. God knows Crowley had some baggage, probably because She could be to blame for some of it.

On the other hand, if Crowley wasn’t lying to Aziraphale (unprobable for a demon) and he was  _ only _ going to use the Holy Water if they were caught, where would that leave Aziraphale? Heaven and Hell would know about the Arrangement and he would have nowhere to go with no demon to save him this time. Crowley was selfish at heart, he was a demon of course, but Aziraphale couldn't help but to be disappointed.

Aziraphale held the thermos tightly and stepped out into the night. He walked through the busy Soho streets until he came upon the Bentley parked in front of the sidewalk. Aziraphale hid in the shadows and waited for Crowley to walk out to his car. 

A moment later, the demon walked out of the building across the street.  _ There he is _ , Aziraphale thought as he watched Crowley talk to some young man.  _ He looks so beautiful and care-free, why would he ever want to end that? _

When Crowley was done talking to the man, he made his way across the street, strutting like he was a non-corporeal snake still not used to functioning in a corporeal human body. Despite his awkward gait and his style which was very… erm, Aziraphale would use the word eccentric, Crowley looked truly amazing. Aziraphale was taught to love all life, and maybe that could even include a demon.

As soon as Crowley entered his car, Aziraphale miracled himself into the passenger’s seat. He tried to keep himself composed, despite the fact he was giving Crowley something that would kill him.

Crowley turned to his left to realize that Aziraphale was sitting there. “What are you doing here?”

“I needed a word with you.”

“What?” Crowley acted as if he didn’t know what this was all about, as if it weren’t plain as day.

“I work in Soho, I hear things. I hear you’re setting up a…er, caper to rob a church.”

Crowley turned away from Aziraphale. As if he expected that Aziraphale wouldn’t come after him. Even if this were just normal angelic/demonic business, he was to thwart the wiles of this demon and stealing from a church was very wiley.

Aziraphale lowered his voice. “Crowley, it’s too dangerous,” he reminded him. “Holy Water won’t just kill you, it’ll destroy your being  _ completely.” _

Crowley sighed and turned towards Aziraphale. His red hair illuminated by the bright lights behind him. “You told me what you think  _ 105 years ago _ .”

“And I haven’t changed my mind,” Aziraphale said quickly. He needed Crowley to know that he wasn’t okay with being the one to sign his death warrant. 

Crowley turned away again, his face void of emotion. But Aziraphale knew he was growing exasperated. He  _ really  _ wanted this.

“But I can’t have you risking your life. Even for something dangerous.” It would break the rules of their Arrangement, afterall. “So…” Aziraphale hesitantly grabbed the thermos and handed it to Crowley. “You can call off the robbery.”

Crowley’s glasses met Aziraphale’s eyes. He looked at him hesitantly and looked at the thermos, as if asking again if he could actually have it.

“Don’t go unscrewing the cap.” Aziraphale held the thermos up a little higher and Crowley took it.

“This the real thing?” he asked, examining the thermos.

“The Holiest.” Aziraphale couldn’t get himself to meet Crowley’s gaze.

“After everything you said?” Crowley’s voice had an undertone of gratitude.

It was getting harder for Aziraphale to stay calm. He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.

“Should I… say thank you?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Better not.” It’d only make him feel guiltier.

“Can I drop you anywhere?”

“No, thank you,” Aziraphale said politely. He finally looked over to Crowley. “Oh, don’t look so disappointed.” He may not have wanted Crowley to know how much he truly cared, but he wanted him to know that he was there for him. “Perhaps one day we could… oh, I don’t know, go for a picnic.” He smiled at the demon. “ _ Dine at the Ritz.” _

“I’ll give you a lift,” Crowley said a bit desperately. “Anywhere you wanna go.”

Aziraphale couldn’t believe him. A moment ago he had just handed over to Crowley his suicide pill and now… and now Crowley wanted to go have an evening together? Aziraphale said very somberly, “You go too fast for me, Crowley.” And with that, he exited the Bentley, praying to someone that the demon would be fine for the time being.

“There is no  _ our side,  _ Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted across the bandstand. Aziraphale couldn’t take it, the demon had proposed that they run away together as if they were… well, friends. They were  _ not  _ friends. Aziraphale hadn’t even told Crowley that he knew where the Antichrist was, he had broken the Arrangement. “Not anymore. It’s over!”

Across from him, Crowley looked hurt. He stayed still for a few seconds before shrugging off the hurtful words. “... Right,” he nodded. “Well then… ngk...” He turned away.

Aziraphale watched as he left. That was it. He knew he had been too harsh but... oh, Crowley was a demon, he had to remember that.

“Have a nice doomsday!” Crowley called back to the bandstand where Aziraphale stayed.

He was a  _ demon _ , not a  _ friend,  _ and not _anything_ more.

“Bugger!” Aziraphale cursed as the Metatron’s presence faded leaving only the open gateway. They were  _ bastards _ , all of them. Gabriel and Michael and Uriel and Sandelphon and the Metatron, all of them. Maybe even… maybe even Her since all this was part of Her Great Plan.  _ Nobody _ would listen to him. Nobody but…

It was wrong. Aziraphale was an angel, he wasn’t supposed to betray his colleagues. He also wasn’t supposed to trust a demon. But he made his way to the old land-line on the wall and dialed in the number that he wasn’t supposed to have memorized.

_ Hey, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do, do it with style. _

Voicemail, of course. Crowley had probably already left for Alpha Centauri, not even thinking about Aziraphale. Aziraphale may have forgiven him, but he had still been angry at Aziraphale when he left. Still, Aziraphale told the phone what he had to say. “I know where the Antichrist is—”

Before he could finish, the line was picked up. Oh goodie, Crowley was home. “Hallo?” he asked, sounding a bit distracted.

“Crowley, it’s me. I should’ve told you this before—”

“Ngk.” Crowley wasn’t even listening.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asked with concern.

“Nah, got an old friend here. Listen, I gotta go. Goodbye, Angel.” Aziraphale heard as the phone was set down yet the line stayed open. Something was definitely wrong over there.

Aziraphale set his own line down. He’d have to run over to the flat to see what was the matter. And he and Crowley could then drive to Tadfield to stop the Apocalypse. Maybe be home in time for supper.

Aziraphale heard some struggling at the entrance, probably some angry customers that he didn’t feel like dealing with at the moment (or really any moment, for that matter). Instead of going that way, he rushed out the back door, too distracted to worry about the rain and wind that poured into his shop when he opened the door and the candle that was knocked over in his shop.

The Bentley raced through the streets as Crowley attempted to call Aziraphale from his cell for the umpteenth time. He felt a bit ashamed for what he had just done, killed a fellow demon with Holy Water and trapped another in his ansa-phone, but he was more ashamed for leaving Aziraphale hanging after that not-at-all helpful phone-call and for saying he wouldn’t even think of him when he left Earth. He couldn't be forgiven since he was a demon, but he still felt the need to apologize.

“Pick-up! Pick-up!” he urged as the phone rang again only to be left unanswered. “Why isn’t he picking— _oh.”_

Crowley pulled his eyes away from the phone and saw the burning building before him. “Oh, oh no!” He hurriedly parked the Bentley on the sidewalk and rushed towards the doors, avoiding the firemen and Soho residents.

“Are you the owner of this establishment?” somebody asked.

“Do I look like I run a bookshop?” he hissed back. He ran inside the building despite the people trying to keep him out.

“Aziraphale?!” he shouted. “Aziraphale, where the Heaven are you?!” The flames roared back in reply.

He had to be in here somewhere, he couldn’t have discorporated. Heaven no doubt knew of the Arrangement and if they got their merciless hands on Aziraphale… who knew what they’d do to him.

“Aziraphale! For Go— for Sat—” Crowley screamed. “For  _ somebody’s  _ sake, where are you?!”

A blast of water broke through a window and threw Crowley across the room. He landed in a puddle of water, and his glasses broke against his face. The flames behind him were hot, but they miraculously didn’t burn Crowley. Still, sitting close to the flames hurt, but not as much as whatever Crowley was feeling inside at the moment. “Somebody killed my  _ best friend!”  _ he cried, his voice a demonic roar.  _ “Bastards! All of you!” _

Crowley sat amid the flames and cursed everything he knew. Hastur, Ligur (may he rest in pain), Heaven and Hell especially, and even Aziraphale. When Crowley felt the building start to fall inward, he stood up, tried to brush off his jacket until he realized he couldn’t do anything about the ashes he was covered in, and grabbed the book nearest to him. “Might as well,” he muttered.

He walked out of the bookshop, the book hugged to his chest and tears streaming down his face. The crowd gathered around the building whispered about him but otherwise stayed away. They knew better than to approach him. Crowley threw his broken glasses at one bystander in particular that speculated he was a crazy drunk.

Crowley slowly walked to the Bentley and was about to get in and drive to the nearest pub before he realized a familiar man was standing nearby. “Sergeant Shadwell,” he sniffed. 

“Mr. Crowley,” the man greeted, his eyes trained on the bookshop as the second floor fell inward with a  _ crash. _ “I came to speak we the owner, but…”

Crowley nodded grimmly. “Was he in there?” he asked.

Sergeant Shadwell recalled hearing Aziraphale inside the shop when he was waiting outside the door. “Aye. The southern pansy.”

Crowley whimpered. He was really gone.

“I came ‘cos he had me send one me men out to Tadfield. He’s now facing trouble there, and I sense s’something much stronger than ye typical witch.”

Tadfield. Stronger than a witch. Could it be the missing Antichrist? Aziraphale had said that he knew where he was.

“Did ye know him, lad?” He turned towards Crowley. “ _ Oi,  _ what’s the matter we ye eyes?”

Crowley made eye contact with Sergeant Shadwell and said, “A witch cursed me.” He climbed into the Bentley and drove off, leaving a flabbergasted Sergeant Shadwell behind. He needed to get to Tadfield. He had to continue fighting for the Earth...  _ for Aziraphale. _

“Are you up there, Crowley?” Aziraphale called up the stairs as he climbed towards Crowley’s floor. He white curls were plastered to his face by the rain and his coat was sopping wet, but stopping Armageddon was a tad more important than his clothes.

Aziraphale noticed the door to Crowley’s flat was ajar and entered with caution. “Crowl— ugh.” Aziraphale looked down as he stepped in something messy and tripped over an adjacent red bucket. A pile of red goop in a puddle of water. “Crowley, what is th—” Aziraphale looked towards Crowley’s desk and saw a thermos with an unmistakably familiar tartan print.

“Oh dear,” he gasped, grabbing onto the door frame to keep himself from falling forward. “This is— this is—” Aziraphale bolted from the door as he realized what he was stepping in. “Oh… Crowley,” Aziraphale sobbed as he covered his mouth with a perfectly manicured hand. _ “Crowley… please no.” _ But Crowley was a pile of goop on the floor.

Thunder crashed outside as Aziraphale knelt down beside Crowley’s remains. “I’m sorry,” he cried, his whole body shuddering with strong emotions. “I’m so  _ so  _ sorry. I should’ve seen it sooner. I didn’t mean what I said. You  _ are  _ my friend and I  _ do  _ like you.”

Of course, there was no reply.

“Please,” Aziraphale pleaded. “ _ Please,  _ come back.”

Aziraphale slowly stood up and grabbed the thermos from the desk. Crowley didn’t kill himself, no.  _ “I killed my best friend!”  _ Aziraphale screamed, throwing his thermos across the room with all his celestial strength.

In his rage, Aziraphale started throwing other objects from the desk. Each crashed into the wall, leaving a dent disrupting the gray uniformity. He threw the globe, he threw the ansa-phone, and he was about to throw the desk itself when he heard a strange noise.

_ BeeeEeeEEeep! _

The ansa-phone’s deafening tone played, breaking Aziraphale from his trance of rage and guilt. A voice came from the machine.  _ “Hallo, Aziraphale.” _

Aziraphale put down the desk and eyed the ansa-phone with suspicion. “Who— who are you?” The voice sounded demonic. Truly demonic, nothing like Crowley's breezy voice.

A being materialized in the room. A pale demon with wispy white hair and dark eyes. “Duke Hastur,” he greeted, a malicious smile on his face. He turned towards the demon goop in the doorway and frowned. Now, Hastur wasn’t the brightest of supernatural beings, but he was very evil and he knew exactly what to do in that moment for things to go south. “Tsk, tsk,” he said. “Sure is a shame what happened to Crowley.”

Aziraphale nodded grimly.

“I came over to speak to him, y’know,” Hastur said as he walked along the perimeter of the room, circling Aziraphale like a predator might circle its prey. “I sensed something was wrong and found Crowley holding a bucket of Holy Water above his head.”

Aziraphale hugged himself. He couldn’t bear to hear it, but if this was the punishment he had to go through for killing his best friend, then he deserved it.

“He was a  _ mess.  _ Rambling on ‘bout some angel-friend who broke his heart.” Hastur looked over at Aziraphale, hoping he had said the right thing to make him feel worse.

“He wanted us to run away together,” Aziraphale explained. He didn’t know why he was telling Hastur this, but the words felt  _ tempted  _ to leave his mouth. “But I said no. Said we weren’t friends and that I didn’t even like him.”

Hastur smirked slightly. Oh yes, this was going perfectly. “Yes… he did say something like that. Your words drove him to kill himself. I tried to stop him, but he trapped me in the ansa-phone. Next thing I know, I’m standing with you and…” He paused for dramatic effect, placing a hand where his heart would be if he weren't the worst of demons. “Poor, poor Crowley.”

Aziraphale sobbed and buried his face in his hands. This was all his fault.

“The only thing is…” Hastur eyed the thermos with a pattern that matched the angel’s clothes. “I don’t know where he would’ve gotten the Holy Water.”

With that, Aziraphale bolted out of the flat. “This is all my fault!” he shouted to himself. He ran back out onto the streets, rain mixing with the tears on his face. He had to get to Tadfield and stop the Apocalypse...  _ it’s what Crowley would’ve wanted. _

“He’s a witch, I say!” Sergeant Shadwell shouted to a frustrated Madame Tracy. He had burst into her flat a minute ago, rambling on about a burning bookshop and a witch-snake-demon-man. He was being so lunatic, he scared away a family wanting to make conversation with the dead.

“Mister Shadwell, I think you should sit down. I understand you’re worried about Newt, but I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Never, Jezebel!” Sergeant Shadwell hissed.

The old phone rang in the hallway. “Now,” Madame Tracy said as she had Sergeant Shadwell sit in one of her chairs. “Sit down and relax while I go see who that is.” She walked to the phone and picked up the line. “Hallo, this is Madame Tracy.”

A strained voice asked, “Is Sergeant Shadwell there?” He sounded as if he’d been crying.

“He is, dear, just let me get him for you.” Madame Tracy called back into her flat, “Mister Shadwell, the call’s for you.” She asked the man on the other side of the phone, “Are you alright, dear?”

The man hesitated. “M’fraid not,” he said quietly. “I lost my best friend and the world’s about to end.”

“Aw, I’m very sorry to hear that. But believe me, the world isn’t going to end, it only feels that way.”

“No, I’m being quite literal. The world is truly about to end in only a few hours.”

Madame Tracy was about to refute that when Sergeant Shadwell grabbed the phone from her. He grunted something that resembled a greeting.

Madame Tracy stood close enough to hear the conversation. “Sergeant, I have to ask you and the Witchfinder Army a favor,” the man said.

Sergeant Shadwell’s eyes went wide. “The southern pansy!” he gasped. “But ye died in the fire. I told the crazy witch-man that.”

Madame Tracy took the phone back. “You’ll have to excuse Mister Shadwell, dear, he’s a wee out of it as of now. What is it that you need?”

“Could you tell the Sergeant to have whatever men he didn’t send into Tadfield get there immediately, and ask if I could get a ride into Tadfield with the army?” the man asked.

“I sent all me men but I,” Sergeant Shadwell said into the phone. “But if me men need me, I’ll gladly march into the battle.”

“And I can give you two boys a ride into Tadfield,” Madame Tracy added. “Where do you need to be picked up, dear?”

Aziraphale told her where the phone-box he was using was and she promised to be there soon. She grabbed a pink helmet from her flat and handed a green one to Sergeant Shadwell.

Aziraphale hugged his shoulders as he stood with Sergeant Shadwell and Madame Tracy in front of the air-base. He was still a bit wet from the rain, despite the speed he had miracled Madame Tracy’s scooter to move at. He could easily miracle himself dry, but he didn’t feel up to it.

Crowley was dead. He was more than dead, his entire being ceased to exist anymore. And it was all Aziraphale’s fault.

Aziraphale eyed the American guard with annoyance. He had to find a way into the air-base. He could always kill him but… he had already killed somebody today.

Aziraphale sighed and looked up at the sky, not praying necessarily, but hoping that Crowley would come back. In the background, Aziraphale could hear the roar of a motor and the cluttering of an old car. It reminded him of Crowley’s Bentley. He could almost hear  _ Queen _ playing faintly. Wait… it  _ couldn’t _ be…

It had not been a good day for Crowley. The world was ending, he had lost his best friend, he had killed one demon and discorporated another, and had just spent the last hour driving through fire and raining fish. Yet he couldn’t help but laugh with satisfaction as he neared the air-base. He had just driven his prized car through the burning M25 and his car was still going. It was all because of his own will, but he still felt proud of the Bentley.

“Won’t get that sort of performance out of a modern car!” he shouted to the people standing outside the air-base as he exited the car. The book he had grabbed was held at his side. During his drive, he had learned that the book was the book of prophecies that Aziraphale had been looking for for a long time.

The people outside the gate turned towards him. There was an angry looking guard clad in an American uniform, a red-haired lady in a pink dress, Sergeant Shadwell (again), and— _oh sweet God_... there was Aziraphale running towards him.

“Crowley!” he shouted with joy, his arms wide. “Crowley, is that you?!”

Crowley rushed towards him, trying his best not to trip over his own legs. “Aziraphale!” he called, happier than he’d like to admit. “Angel!”

When the two met, they fell to the ground and grasped each other in a hug. “I thought you were  _ dead!” _ Aziraphale cried, his voice muffled as he buried his face in Crowley’s chest.

“Same for you,” Crowley said. Were demons supposed to hug angels? Probably not. Crowley wasn’t even sure if demons could give hugs, but he held Aziraphale anyway.

“I went— I went to your flat and I found—” Aziraphale attempted to explain to Crowley what he saw, but ended up sobbing incoherently into Crowley’s jacket.

“Angel, it’s fine, it’s fine. I’m right here.” Crowley then remembered what state he had left his flat in. “Oh.” The demon goop and the Holy Water. “Oh, Angel, I’m so sorry. I used the Holy Water on Ligur.”

“I thought it was  _ you! _ I thought you had killed yourself! And it was all my fault!”

“ _ Your _ fault?” Crowley cupped Aziraphale’s face in his hands. “Angel, why would it be  _ your _ fault?”

Aziraphale tried to catch his breath. 

“Aziraphale,  _ please _ . I’m right here.”

“I’m so sorry!” he cried. “I’m so sorry for everything I said! I  _ do  _ care for you, Crowley. I  _ do!” _

“I know, Angel,” Crowley smiled. “I care for you too.”

__ This whole time I thought I had given you the Holy Water to use on yourself.”

“ _ Myself?  _ Nah, it was for other demons.” Suddenly, Aziraphale’s reasoning for not giving him the Holy Water made a lot more sense. “Aziraphale, I’d  _ never _ do that. I would  _ never  _ leave you like that.”

Aziraphale pulled Crowley even tighter into the hug. “Good,” he muttered into his chest.

Crowley patted the flattened floof on Aziraphale’s head. “I’m sorry if it seemed like I had gone. Oh... and Aziraphale?”

“Hmm?”

“If you were at my flat… I suppose you don’t know about your bookshop.”

Aziraphale lifted his head and noticed the charred book next to him. “Crowley… what happened?”

“It burned down,” Crowley said somberly. “I’m so sorry. I rushed in there but there was nothing I could do. I thought you had been in there, that you had discorporated.”

“Oh… well.” He turned his beautiful brown eyes up towards Crowley. “I’m here now.”

Crowley placed his chin upon Aziraphale’s head, savoring the scent. “I’m here now,” he repeated.

“Oi! Would ye two quit ye kissing and pay attention!” Sergeant Shadwell yelled from the gate.

Crowley stood up and offered a hand to Aziraphale. “Well… should we go avert Armageddon?”

Aziraphale took it. “We shall.”

And that’s what they did. They also averted Beelzebub, Gabriel, and the wrath of Satan. Quite the overachievers they were. They were very lucky to still be alive after everything that had happened that day, to still have each other. On the bus ride home, Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, not wanting to let his angel go.

Aziraphale was a bit surprised but allowed for it to happen. He smiled as he sat next to Crowley. “I’m sorry about your car,” he said.

Crowley nodded. “And your bookshop.”

“And… I’m still sorry about everything I said earlier.”

Crowley smiled. He knew he hadn’t meant it; although, it still hurt when he did. “S’okay,” he whispered. “I’m sorry that I let you think I had killed myself.”

Aziraphale leaned up against Crowley, and Crowley put a lanky arm around him. “I tried to call you to let you know where the Antichrist was. Honestly… I had known where he was long before that, and I told everyone, Sergeant Shadwell, the angels, the Metatron. I told everyone but the person I trusted the most.”

Crowley hesitated. "I'm a demon, Aziraphale, not a person. You shouldn't trust me."

“I _do_ trust you. And yet, I… I  _ lied  _ to you at the bandstand. I apologize, I should’ve told you then, but I was still caught up on sides.”

Crowley brushed his thumb against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I know it’s not s'posed to be my thing, but… I forgive you. For everything.”

Aziraphale pressed his face further into Crowley’s chest, enjoying his existence that he thought he had lost. There would be lots to worry about in the morning, but that was for the morning. Now, Aziraphale just wanted to go to Crowley’s flat.


End file.
